


Twist

by emmagrant01



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fix-It, Infidelity, M/M, possibility of a happy ending for this episode, remix of a canon scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1474723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A what-if remix of one scene from His Last Vow: Instead of ignoring John's jealousy over Janine after she leaves 221B, Sherlock decides to say something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twist

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot that I wanted to get out of my head before moving on to a bigger project. Some dialogue is adapted directly from the episode; I used Ariane Devere's [transcript of HLV](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67234.html) for reference. I owe huge thanks to Drinkingcocoa for her incredibly thoughtful comments on two earlier drafts of this story.

Sherlock sat at the table and opened his laptop. "I'm not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He is the Napoleon of blackmail and he has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. Its name–"Sherlock turned the computer screen toward John and looked up at him. "–is Appledore."

John stared at the screen. Sherlock had been talking, had said some undoubtedly important things about Magnate – Manderson – whatever-his-name-was – but John's brain remained frozen on the mental image of Sherlock and Janine, standing in the doorway, being so… _ugh_. And Janine wanted the four of them to get together, seriously? Like couple friends or…  _God_.

"Dinner," John said, and Sherlock looked at him as if he'd said a made-up word.

"Sorry, what? Dinner?"

"Me and Mary, coming for dinner… with… wine… and… sitting." Surely it sounded as ludicrous to Sherlock as it did to John.

"Seriously? I've just told you that the western world is run from this house, and you want to talk about  _dinner_?" He stared at John with an utterly incredulous expression, as if he wasn't the one who was acting completely out of character here.

"Ah. No. I don't want to talk about dinner. I really, really don't." God, no. No dinner. Ever again.

"Then what?"

John was flooded with the sudden realization that he was making a complete fool of himself. There was something else going on here, something bigger than Sherlock having a... girlfriend. Who had slept over. And who went into the bathroom while he was _naked_ and did God knew what and he made little noises like he liked it and  _fuck_ , _no_ , _stop_.

John tried for a semi-casual shrug that actually resembled a mild seizure. "Look, it's been quite a morning. Lots of crazy shit and I'm not on my game. So yeah, just… Tell me about Dumbledore."

"Appledore."

"Whatever."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you… No, never mind."

"What?"

"John–"

"Am I what? Annoyed? Still pissed off at you for shooting up? And don't bother saying it was for a case, because–"

"And now you're changing the subject back to me, when this is clearly all about you."

"I am not–"

"Jealous."

"What?"

"You're obviously jealous. Would you like me to list all the signs?"

John barked out a laugh and scrubbed a hand against the back of his neck. "No! That is so not… no. Janine is attractive, sure, but not my type. And besides, I'm married and—"

"Not jealous of me. Jealous of  _her_."

John gaped at him for a full second. "No.  _No_. Christ, Sherlock, that's – why would I be jealous of her?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose into his hairline, and John forced himself to look away. His chest felt tight and his throat was dry, and _God_ , what was he doing? He'd put all of this firmly in the past, locked it away, but the sight of Janine, and the way she'd fucking _looked_ at Sherlock, and the _kissing_ , Christ. He'd been so certain he knew who Sherlock was, that he knew him better than anyone, but this had blindsided him completely. How had she broken through when he'd never—

No. Leave it. He looked up again. "Look, just..." He gestured at the laptop screen. "Forget it. Go on. Case, media magnate, blackmail. Explain."

Sherlock hesitated a moment before seeming to decide to let it go. He gestured John closer and began minimizing windows on the screen until a schematic of the house appeared. His fingers traced a circle on the touchpad and the image began to spin slowly. "This private residence is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world."

He smiled at the screen in that way he always did when the adrenaline of a case began flowing through his veins, and John's gaze was drawn away from the screen and to his face. His hair, still damp from the bath, curled delicately against the pale skin of his neck, and his cheek was smooth, freshly shaved. John leaned in closer and took a steadying breath, and God, he even smelled nice.

Sherlock went very still. "Did you just...  _smell_  me?"

John clenched his jaw. "Oh, for... I do have to breathe, you know."

"Of course you do."

"If it's bothering you, I can–"

"No, it's fine." Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat and cleared his throat. "As I was saying, it's the greatest repository of information anywhere in the world. The Alexandrian Library of secrets and scandals – and  _none_  of it is on a computer. He's smart – computers can be hacked. It's all on hard copy in vaults." 

"Vaults," John repeated. His mouth was much closer to Sherlock's ear than he'd realized, and Sherlock startled at his voice. He dropped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed apologetically. "Sorry."

Sherlock pointed at the screen. "The vaults are underneath that house, and as long as they are, the personal freedom of  _anyone_  you've ever met is a fantasy."

There was a long moment of silence, during which John's brain was stuck on the word  _fantasy_.

"So are you interested?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Interested?" John realized that he was tracing small circles on the back of Sherlock's neck with his thumb, and pulled his hand away. He stood back and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Interested in this? Vaults and secrets and... fantasies."  _Shit_.

Sherlock turned to look up at him. "In helping me with this case, John."

His eyes were blue and earnest and not at all as dull as they'd been that morning when John had dragged him out of a drug den by the scruff of his neck. He'd wanted to kill him, to shake him hard and press him up against a wall and no,  _no_ , bad mental imagery there. To pound some sense into him, or – no, that didn't work either.

John shook his head. "Fuck."

"Sorry?"

John pressed his hands over his face. "A month, Sherlock. An entire month, and nothing. Have you any idea how worried I was?"

"Not worried enough to ring me or stop by the flat, apparently." Sherlock's tone had a hard edge to it, and John dropped his hands to stare at him.

"I texted you."

"Twice in four weeks."

"And you didn't respond."

"There was nothing to respond to." He sneered and made air-quotes with his fingers. "'We're home.' 'Positive pregnancy screen.' Did you actually expect me to make small talk in response?"

"No, I expected you to text me back with a case, or something."

"Would it have mattered if I had? New wife, fabulous sex holiday, baby on the way. What could I possibly offer to draw you away from all of that domestic bliss?" Anger simmered just under the surface, and resentment; the intensity of it caught John off-guard.

"You're the one who disappeared for two years without a word, but I'm a cock for trying to get on with my life, really?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, and John realized what he'd just said. Well, shit.

"I am sorry, John," Sherlock said after a long, uncomfortable moment, the fight gone from him now. "I don't know how else I can say it."

"I know." John wrapped his arms around himself and looked down at the floor, anywhere but at Sherlock. "Maybe I am a bit jealous. I'm supposed to be your best friend, after all, and she's larking about the flat barely dressed and rearranging everything." John forced himself to look up at Sherlock again. "Do you actually like being called _Sherl_?"

Sherlock gave him a long look. "What do you think?"

"Then why…" John's eyebrows rose. "Oh, God, it's not… you're not…"

"It's not what you think," Sherlock said as he turned back to the screen. "We're working together on this case."

"Together," John repeated, and something twisted inside him.

"She's actually quite good at this sort of work. Clever, resourceful, devious when necessary. It's different than the way I worked with you, but it's… good."

John crossed his arms over his chest and tried to push down the nausea rising in his throat. He didn't want to think about the possibility that Sherlock had replaced him so easily. "So are you two… I mean…" He paused. "You're working on this case together."

"Yes." The _duh_ was left implied.

John inhaled sharply through his nose. "Are you sleeping with her?"

"What if I am? Does it matter?"

"Yes. No. Maybe." John pressed his lips together. It was none of his business, but the thought of Sherlock and Janine, _together_ , made him want to break things. "Fuck it, you're right. I'm horribly jealous. I know I've no right to be, but I am."

"Why?" Sherlock's hands had stilled on the keyboard.

"I thought you'd text me if you needed help with a case. Not go find yourself another… partner."

"You were busy. Janine was available."

"You didn't even ask if I was busy. You just assumed."

"No, I observed." Sherlock hesitated for a moment. "Is that the only reason you're jealous?"

John shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked out the window, down to the street where life was going on outside, as usual. "I'm… surprised that you're sleeping with her. Because you don't... I mean, I didn't think you did... that."

"There are quite a few things I _do_ that you've missed lately."

John winced as if the jab had been a physical one. "Yeah, I know."

"And you have more important things to do."

"I don't. I really, _really_ don't. God." John exhaled and stared at the back of Sherlock's head. He felt an impulse to sink his hands into Sherlock's hair, tilt his head back, and... and what? "Look, I'm sorry I didn't make more of an effort to find you when we got back. I thought you'd find me. You always do, come storming in to drag me off to God knows where for a mad adventure. I suppose I was angry that you didn't."

"What good would it have done?" Sherlock's voice was quiet, defeated, and John closed his eyes for a moment.

"Quite a lot. I've missed you. This."

Sherlock made a strangled sound at that. "Have you."

It wasn't a question, and John wasn't sure how to respond. He reached out without thinking and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Sherlock's ear. It was something he did with Mary all the time, and he didn't quite realize he'd done it until Sherlock sighed and leaned into the touch. John felt warmth flood his chest.

Sherlock's voice wavered when he finally spoke again. "I'd originally planned to come back to you a year earlier than I did, but it took longer to finish the job. I should have come back anyway, before you and Mary..." He trailed off, swallowed hard.

"Or not left me at all," John said, his voice so quiet that he wasn't sure Sherlock had even heard the words.

Sherlock started to turn toward him, but stopped, and John watched his face in profile for a moment. His lips pressed together and he blinked, and he looked as sad as John had ever seen him. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"

John inhaled, exhaled again, filled with an overwhelming sense of regret. It was so horribly unfair. He took a step closer and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder again, and Sherlock reached up to cover it with his own. John let his mind wander, let his thoughts spin. What would happen if he pulled Sherlock close right now, held him, kissed him? He should take a step backwards, put space between them, and let this moment fade away. Neither of them would bring it up again, and they would move on, figure out how to fit their friendship into the space around it.

He should. He so, so should. But.

He looked down at Sherlock's face, to the tightness of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the way his eyelashes lay dark against his skin. Sherlock's fingers squeezed John's and let go, and then John couldn't hold himself back any longer. He _wanted_ , so much, and maybe just this, trailing his fingertips down Sherlock's temple, across his cheek, over his jaw – maybe that would ease the pain in his chest just enough to bear it. Perhaps if he kept going, traced the long line of Sherlock's neck, palm flat now against the vulnerable base of his throat, maybe then, maybe, oh _God_. Sherlock's head fell back against John's chest, eyes closed, and John's hand slid down over his clavicle and sternum before pressing gently over his heart. He could feel the rapid beating of it under his hand.

Just this: would it hurt, just this once? Maybe – probably – but he couldn't bring himself to worry about that right now. He tilted Sherlock's head back and leaned over him, and pressed his lips against Sherlock's forehead.

A hand slid up behind John's neck then and pulled him further down, drew their mouths together. John paused with a few millimeters between them and drew in a breath, not letting himself go to the moment just yet. They couldn't take this back, once it was done. He'd never forget the feeling of Sherlock's lips against his own; he'd want it again, more, forever. And he couldn't have that. Would it be worse to know what he was missing, or to know he had the chance and didn't take it?

Sherlock's fingers stroked the back of John's neck, waiting, and John finally let go, pressed his lips against Sherlock's. It was warm and soft, and not as earth-shattering as he'd imagined, but so, so real. Sherlock's lips parted beneath his and John felt an electric thrill at the wet slide of tongue and teeth against his own. The hand on the back of his neck tightened and there was another on his back, and John let himself be pulled into Sherlock's lap, straddling him in the desk chair. Sherlock's arms twined around him, holding him close, and John's hands clutched at Sherlock's jaw, his shoulder, his hair. Sherlock's hands moved down his back and over his arse, and John was half-hard now, just from this. Sherlock pulled him in closer and, oh, _there_. It wouldn't take much for them to grind against each other like this, to frot like teenagers who'd managed to sneak away for a few naughty minutes, frantic for contact. Sherlock's hips shifted forward then, pressing their cocks together through several layers of fabric, and then John couldn't think, could scarcely breathe, could only kiss Sherlock with all his heart and his chest pressed tightly against him, and it wasn't enough.

"John," Sherlock said against his lips, and whatever he'd planned to say next melted into a groan as John worked a hand between them to adjust the uncomfortable angle of his erection. The backs of his fingers pressed against the bulge in Sherlock's trousers in the process, and oh,  _oh_  - Sherlock was rock hard and John's mind shuttered, spun wildly. He started to draw his hand away, but Sherlock caught it and held it there, rutted up against John's palm, and oh,  _God_.

John resolutely shut down the part of his brain that had finally begun to question what he was doing - he was too far gone for that now. He stroked Sherlock's erection through the fine fabric of his trousers and kissed him again, muffling the noises Sherlock was making against his mouth. Yes, this was happening; it was real, and he could barely do more than hang on for dear life.

Sherlock's hips shifted up against his and God, John _needed_. His fingers worked at the button of Sherlock's trousers and Sherlock made a whimpering sound, pulled out of the kiss long enough to say, "Yes, please." John tore the zip down and wrapped his fingers around the hard length of Sherlock's cock, and they both made a soft sound at that contact, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same heated air.

"Oh, God, you," John whispered and stroked up, and Sherlock shuddered against him. Another pull, faster now, and Sherlock swore softly. John dove in to kiss him again, hot and messy, and his hand worked at the head of Sherlock's cock.   

There was a sound on the stairs, inordinately loud and disorienting, and they pulled apart to stare at each other, wild-eyed.

"Shit," John whispered and stood, took a step backwards, nearly lost his balance from the swirl of endorphins in his system. He stuck a hand in his trousers to adjust himself, one hand braced on the desk. _Oh, God._ Mrs. Hudson, from the sound of it, but still – it had to be completely obvious what they'd just been doing.

He turned to look at Sherlock. His expression was deadly serious, but his appearance was as debauched as John had ever seen: shirt wrinkled, cock still jutting out, hair a hot mess.  _Jesus_. 

"You–" John said, but then Mrs. Hudson opened the door and Sherlock swiveled the chair away from her view just in time. 

"Oh, that was the doorbell," Mrs. Hudson tutted. "Couldn't you hear it?"

"It's in the fridge," Sherlock said, a bit breathlessly. "It kept ringing."

"That's not a fault, Sherlock! I'll go answer it." She shook her head and then paused to give the two of them a long, calculating look. "Whatever you've just been up to... well, you look a mess. The both of you." With that she headed back down the stairs.

Sherlock stood and refastened his trousers, then crossed to the mirror above the fireplace. He ran a hand through his hair, settling it down into something approximating normal.

John watched Sherlock's reflection, uncertain what to say or do next. He wanted desperately to press pause on all of this, to take a moment to ask what the hell had just happened and what it meant and what would happen next, but it was swirling away already. His cock was still hard in his pants and yet he felt empty, almost stricken. Was that it, then, their only chance? Was it over before it had even begun?

Mrs Hudson's voice floated up the stairs – "Mr Holmes said you can go right up." – and John frowned.

"Expecting someone?"

"Apparently my afternoon meeting has been rescheduled." Sherlock's eyes met John's in the mirror, and John felt it like a physical blow. They stared at each other for a long moment, and John's heart pounded so loudly he was sure Sherlock could hear it. Sherlock looked away, turned to face the door.

"Right," John tried to say, but his voice was hollow, rough. He stared blankly at Sherlock, who seemed to be avoiding his gaze now, and his chest ached.  

There were more sounds from the entryway and feet on the stairs, and Sherlock's entire countenance changed. John leapt into action without even thinking, crossing to stand beside him just as three large men in suits strolled into the room. John cast a quick glance at Sherlock, hoping for a clue as to how he should react. Sherlock stared straight ahead, apparently unintimidated by their appearance, but then, he rarely seemed intimidated by anyone.

One of the men stopped in front of Sherlock, and he sighed and held out his arms. "Oh, go on then."

The man frisked him, pausing at his groin for a moment before shooting a look at one of his companions. John rolled his eyes, and a moment later found himself facing one of them.

"Oh, honestly?" John asked, unable to keep the hint of a whine from his voice. He'd ditched the tire iron and the knife back at Bart's, thankfully, but still, this fucking _day_.

"He's fine," Sherlock said, but the man kneeling in front of John began to frisk him anyway.

He ran the back of his hand along the line of John's erection and raised his eyebrows, and John shot him a look of annoyance. "Would you believe I'm happy to see you?"

The man glared at John and stood, remaining uncomfortably close.

"I can vouch for this man," Sherlock spat, sounding increasingly annoyed himself. "He's a doctor. If you know who I am then you know who he is." He turned and looked at the doorway. "Don't you, Mr Magnussen?"

John turned to see a slight man walking through the doorway. The gravity of the room seemed to shift toward him as he moved, warping reality around him. Sherlock had described him as shark-like before, and John couldn't shake the image now. Magnussen's gaze slid around the room once before it settled on the two of them, lingering on their groins for a moment before sliding back up to their faces. Something sparked behind Magnussen's grey eyes then, and John swallowed. Sherlock fidgeted beside him, and John resisted the urge to look over at him.

"I understood we were meeting at your office."

Magnussen's grey eyes focused on John's face. "This is my office. Well, it is _now._ " His gaze shifted to Sherlock. "Very difficult to get a read on you, Mr Holmes. At least, it was until a moment ago." His eyes narrowed and he almost smiled. "My, my, marital discord so soon, Dr Watson?"

John glared at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Magnussen circled slowly around, surveying the flat as if he were considering buying it. "No need to be coy. We're all adults here. I've no cause to judge anyone's private... affairs."

"No, you prefer to use them for blackmail," Sherlock said. 

Magnussen shrugged and examined Sherlock's violin. "I like to know things. It occasionally helps speed discussions along. And considering what I know about the two of you – no surprise there, I should say – and about Dr Watson's wife… well." He chuckled and lifted the bow, stroked the length of it with bony fingers. "The three of you are so very entertaining."

"My wife?" John asked, unable to keep anger out of his tone. Sherlock shot him a look that clearly said  _leave it_.

"Naughty, naughty girl. So many dead people. I suppose she's exactly your type, though?" Magnussen replaced the bow and turned to glance down the corridor toward the bedroom. "That talent is going to waste at the moment, I'm afraid."

"I've no idea what you're talking about," John replied, but felt a chill run through him all the same.

"The bathroom," Magnussen said, gesturing to one of his security thugs. "Is it like the rest of the flat?"

"Yes, sir."

"Maybe not, then." He crossed behind John and Sherlock to the fireplace.

"I've been asked to intercede with you by Lady Smallwood on the matter of her husband's letters," Sherlock began, but stopped at the sound of a fly being unzipped. He and John exchanged a tense look. "Mr Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?"

"Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I _like_ her."

There was a small rustling behind them, followed by the distinct sound of liquid splattering down into the fireplace. John blinked, certain he was imagining it.

"She's English, with a spine. Best thing about the English – you're _so_ domesticated. All standing around, apologizing, keeping your little heads down."

He continued, but John couldn't process the words. Magnussen was pissing - fucking  _pissing_  - in their fireplace. He began to turn around, but Sherlock remained staring straight ahead, expressionless. For whatever reason, he was just going to take it, and he apparently expected John to follow suit. John swallowed and looked across the room, searching for an object to focus on.

Magnussen zipped up again and stepped away from the fireplace, back into John's field of vision. One of the security thugs handed Magnussen a packet of wet wipes; he took one and wiped his fingers with it. "Tell Lady Smallwood I might need those letters, so I'm keeping them. Goodbye." John's eyes followed the crumple of white paper down as Magnussen dropped it to the floor. Christ, that oily-smooth voice was going to make his skin crawl forever."Anyway, they're funny," Magnussen continued, tucking something into his coat pocket. He turned for the stairs, his still-glaring security men trailing after him. 

"Jesus," John said once the building was quiet again. "Sherlock, what the hell just happened?"

Sherlock, inexplicably, was smiling. "Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?" 

"Just one? He just threatened to blackmail the two of us, accused my wife of being... God, I don't even know what. Oh, and took a fucking  _piss_  in our fireplace!"

"No, none of that. Though that's an interesting bit of information about Mary. I hadn't suspected – but there's no time now."

"What?" John gaped at him.

"No, the letters, John. He brought them to London and made a point of showing them to me. That means he's ready to make a deal. And since he thinks he has plenty of dirt on us, he won't consider us a serious threat." He turned to grin at John, and grasped him by the shoulders. "This is even better than I'd hoped." He pulled John into a quick kiss and then dashed across the flat to the door. "Because he's in town tonight, the letters will be in his safe in his London office while he's out to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain from seven 'til ten."

John stared after him, his lips still tingling from the kiss. "How do you know his schedule?"

"Because I do." Sherlock pulled on his coat and turned back to grin at him. "Right - I'll see you tonight."

John crossed to him and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. "Wait, wait. This is - we need to talk about this. We can't just pretend that didn't happen."

Sherlock frowned at him. "Pretend what didn't–" His eyes widened and his cheeks tinged pink. "Oh. That."

"Yes, _that._ "John shot him a mild glare. Once Sherlock was on the case, he was indistractible. "Where we nearly–" he lowered his voice to a whisper "–got off in the desk chair. We need to talk about that."

"No, we're good. You need to have a talk with Mary, though. Tell her you want to have sex with me on a regular basis, and then ask her about her history of killing people."

John sputtered in response – which part of that should he respond to first? "The... you... the fuck?"

"And then bring her with you tonight. I suspect she'll come in useful. Both of you should be armed."

"Mary doesn't own a gun!"

Sherlock made a skeptical face. "Nooooo, I'm fairly certain she does. A very good one, I'd wager. With a silencer." Sherlock threaded his scarf around his neck and turned to leave. "Actually, tell her to bring the silencer."

"No, no, no – stop." John caught his arm and tugged him back. "What the hell is going on?"

Sherlock sighed, put-upon. "We don't have time for this. I need you to go straighten everything out with your wife before tonight."

"By telling her you and I are having sex? Which we aren't, by the way."

"Yet. Oh honestly, John." Sherlock smirked at him for a moment and then slid a hand around John's head and pulled him into a searing kiss. John's knees nearly buckled, and Sherlock's other arm went around his waist. 

"Will that do for now?" he whispered against John's lips, and John found himself nodding weakly. "I've got to go. I'll text instructions for tonight."

"Tonight," John repeated, and Sherlock turned toward the door again. "Wait, what about Janine? Should we coordinate with her or–"

"Ah yes, Janine." Sherlock paused in the doorway and looked thoughtful for a moment. "I think I'll ask her to marry me."

"What?" John gaped at him. "You're still high, aren't you? Oh my God."

"Don't worry, John. I have a plan." He ducked down for one more lingering kiss and then practically skipped down the stairs.

"Of course you do." John shook his head, exasperated.

"Oh, and John? Your chair is in my bedroom. Move it back out to the sitting room, if you like."

With that, the exterior door closed with a loud thunk.

John stepped back across the threshold into 221B, closed the door and pressed his forehead against it. Frustration and confusion competed for space in his brain, but so did excitement and more than a twinge of sexual frustration. What the hell had just happened?

He walked down the corridor to the bedroom and threw open the door. The bedclothes were rumpled, but only on one side, he couldn't help but notice. His chair was pushed into the far corner, incongruously large in this space. A small tent of paper rested on the seat, and John crossed toward it and picked the paper up. On it, in Sherlock's familiar scrawl, was printed:

_DO NOT SIT HERE._

John grinned and put a hand over his mouth. It was mad, all of it, and he probably ought to wonder what the hell he'd just got himself into. Sherlock and Mary, and even Janine, and that creepy fucker Magnussen – not to mention the drugs and the sex and apparently a hell of a lot of secrets as well – his universe had been turned on its head in the space of a few hours.

But he had the feeling that somehow, it would all turn out just fine.

***

~ _fin_ ~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for any comments or kudos you wish to leave! <3


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